


Atonement

by RandomStuff_7739



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Handplates (Undertale), Blue Magic Strangulation, Child Abuse, Everyone Needs A Hug, Gen, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Mercyplates, Past Abuse, Self-Hatred, Smoking, Strangulation, Suicide, This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things, Threats of Violence, Whump, Yandere, Yandere W.D. Gaster, familial yandere, i don’t like this at all but yknow.. whatever i guess, inspired by. some friends., its just a headcanon of mine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-11
Updated: 2020-04-11
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:55:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23599453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RandomStuff_7739/pseuds/RandomStuff_7739
Summary: All Gaster ever does is hurt the ones he loves. This is the only way he’ll stop for good.
Relationships: Papyrus & Sans (Undertale), W. D. Gaster & Papyrus, W. D. Gaster & Papyrus & Sans, W. D. Gaster & Sans
Comments: 6
Kudos: 46





	Atonement

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [An Empty Jar.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23583202) by [MysterySusu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MysterySusu/pseuds/MysterySusu). 



> The context for this is...way too much to explain ahshshha;;

He flicked away the burnt-out cigarette into the slowly-filling ashtray, burying his face into his hands, and leaning forward as he sat on his bed.

He couldn’t live with what he’d done to them. 

He wasn’t sure how, or why he thought that it was a good idea—but then again, the same went for so many other things he had done before. He could’ve hurt them, he could’ve _killed_ them, even—he didn’t know what was wrong with him.

Or even if it could ever be fixed.

And after everything—after running the experiments and ending them, after bringing them home and clumsily regaining their trust, after finally, foolishly feeling as if maybe, _just maybe,_ things would turn out alright for once.

He let out a shaky breath, tossing aside the empty box.

* * *

_He held Sans by the throat, slowly strangling him. His eyelights glowed a fiery, blinding white as he glared coldly, watching his son struggle._

_“Where were you?” he asked harshly, his question nearly a hiss._

_Sans flailed, whimpering and clawing at his father’s hands as they left him dangling by the neck. Tears welled up in his eye sockets, and he turned his head away, seemingly unable to answer. His bones were rattling, loud enough to be heard, his breathing erratic and shallow._

_He shut his eyes tightly._

_“d-dad, please_ — _l-listen to me_ — _!!”_

_His grip tightened, and Sans choked._

_“Look at me, Sans,” he demanded, his tone icy, making his son shiver. His working eye burned a bright violet, and he reluctantly opened his eyes, the purple flicker laced with faint traces of red._

_“Good. Now, where were you?” he asked. “And don’t think about lying to me. That will only make your punishment worse.”_

_Sans hiccuped a sob, still trying to pull his hands off, to no avail._

_Gaster shifted his hands slightly, bending Sans’ neck to the side as a warning. Sans whimpered, sobbing loudly in fear._

_“i—i just went out t-to see my friend, i s-swear_ — _!” he said, terrified. “p-please don’t hurt me, please—_ _!!”_

_“Tell me their name.”_

* * *

Gaster shuddered at the memory, his hands shaking as he curled them into fists, distal phalanges digging sharply into what was left of his palms. 

He couln’t believe what he’d done, no matter how clear each memory was.

He hadn’t only harmed his children, but their friend, as well—who hadn’t done anything but visit them.

How horrible could he get, really? All he ever did was hurt those around him—over and over again. It was a wonder that they hadn’t gotten sick of his constant mistakes already.

 _Everyone would have been better off if I had died that day with the rest of them,_ he thought to himself bitterly, before shivering and covering his mouth.

It was true, however. It had been for years now. 

He deserved to die. He had known it the whole time. 

Everyone would be better off if he were dead. His family, his friends— _everyone._

He didn’t know why he existed in the first place. What was the point, if nothing he did brought any good to anyone he knew? 

_“i hate you!!” Sans screamed after he had let him go, running off before he could respond._

He shook his head, staring at the floor. He knew that _one_ of them would tell him that at one point, but he never could have known that it would sting so badly.

He couldn’t forget the look in his eyes—he truly looked like he despised him. He had every right to, really—he would be surprised if he didn’t. He deserved it; he should’ve stopped when they told him to.

When they _begged_ him to, screaming and sobbing, pleading for their father to come back. To stop.

He was simply too ignorant and irrational to do so. 

He couldn’t just stop hurting the people he cared about, could he?

It hurt. It hurt so _badly,_ his SOUL feeling as though it were being eaten away from the inside. He just wanted all of this to end, he wanted to make these episodes stop—but he couldn’t. Sometimes he wouldn’t even remember what he _did_ —which was horrifying, to him.

He wanted so badly to stay with them. To stay with what little family he had left, to care about his children _properly_ for once, not the awkward, unsure way he always had, and certainly not how he had been doing lately.

He wanted to stop hurting them. They didn’t deserve the pain he had put them through, not at all.

He told Papyrus to take Sans and go spend the weekend with Asgore. Papyrus was hesitant, of course, but he did so anyway.

He wondered if it was out of fear.

He glanced back at the knife he put down on his bed a few hours ago, its blade shining in the light of his bedroom. He had planned to do it, he had enough time, and the children were not around to see it happen. He should have been able to do it. 

What was stopping him? 

Was he afraid?

He realized, after a moment, that he was—he was afraid of what would happen afterward.

He knew that Sans wouldn’t care very much about what happened to him—he had broken his trust yet again, and he didn’t expect to ever earn it back.

It was Papyrus, really, that he was concerned about. He was always so optimistic, believing that he could get better, even after everything he had done. He wouldn’t stop believing it, no matter how many times he had shut that thought down.

He would be crushed. And Gaster was afraid of that, even if he knew that it was for the best.

_How could someone be so selfish?_

_He_ was the reason his sons were suffering like this, the reason they panicked whenever someone used blue magic, the reason they had to keep lying to everyone, the reason they both had near-constant nightmares—and most recently, the reason why they flinched every time they were told that they were loved.

He was the reason they never had the chance to be children, to live their lives the way they were supposed to. 

He hated this. He hated _himself._

He hated everything about himself. He always had, really; but he couldn’t stand it now.

He picked the knife, his hands shaking slightly as he wrapped his fingers around the cool handle.

_Am I really going to do this?_

He was. He had to.

He had traumatized them over and over. Put them through things several times worse than what he had gone through himself.

At least in the lab he could have stopped. Now, he couldn’t change no matter how hard he tried to.

He didn’t want to leave them, but what choice did he have? All he could do now was give up and accept the fate he had put upon himself.

Was giving up the only thing he could ever do? He wouldn’t be surprised if the answer were yes. 

Maybe this was the world’s way of telling him that. Maybe he was right about the fact that the only way to stop was to simply stop existing altogether. 

His grip on the blade tightened as he took a breath, attempting to keep himself collected.

 _I do what I have to. That’s all._

He exhaled softly, pulling his SOUL from his chest, the dim, white flicker of magical light emanating from it illuminating the area around it.

It was worn out and somewhat grey, cracked into three pieces. He couldn’t forget the day he had made those cracks, carving through his bone to create the two children he’d end up tormenting.

He felt his eyes flicker. It had been a long time since they had glowed anything other than blinding white.

He knew what to do—he’d have to make it quick. He wasn’t very keen on making it painful, even if he did deserve that and more.

He took his SOUL in one hand, digging his fingers into it, raising the hand holding the knife.

He hesitated slightly, staring at it, a sharp, slight pain shooting through his bones from the way he was gripping the very culmination of his being.

He shook his head.

It was merely a few seconds before his clothes were coated in dust.

* * *

Three days.

They’d been at Asgore’s for three days, with no word from their father whatsoever.

Asgore seemed to be worried, but he was always worried when it came to Gaster—which was fair, considering he never properly took care of himself. 

It was the same for Papyrus, except he wasn’t really good at hiding it, unlike Asgore.

But in reality, neither of them managed to hide it from anyone in a situation like this.

Sans wasn’t doing well at all. He could tell that his brother wasn’t, either, although neither of them had said it out loud—all it took was a shared look between them to understand that they were both worried about the same thing.

They both knew why he told them to go. It all happened right after that... _episode_ of his—he had locked himself in his room for a few hours, silent, before coming out and shakily telling them to go to Asgore with the excuse of wanting to stay alone for a day or two.

But everything about it felt off. His trembling hands and voice, the way he had refused to answer their relatively basic questions, how he flinched when they had asked him why—the simple, quiet _sadness_ of his demeanour as he had them leave. 

Their father may have often been depressing, but this didn’t feel normal at all.

Not to mention that he’d said that he’d be taking them both home today.

He paced back and forth in the spare room they were using, fidgeting slightly, contemplating whether he should wait or go check up on him. He _knew_ his dad—he was going to despise and blame himself over everything that had happened, and yet he had still left him alone. He should’ve thought it through better. 

After a few minutes, he decided he would wait another hour. If his father didn’t come, he’d go and see how he was doing. 

It was likely one of the worst, longest hours of his life.

With each passing second, he could sense an ominous feeling slowly consuming him and his thoughts. He didn’t know what this feeling was, what to call it—but he was sure that he’d never felt anything like it before. 

When it was finally time to go, he left silently. He didn’t want to cause any sort of panic—it had to be nothing. Surely he was working on something, or he had simply forgotten to pick them up.

So he left without alerting anyone.

Or, he tried to, at least.

“SANS?”

Sans flinched, turning.

“hey, papyrus…” he said, smiling nervously.

“WHERE ARE YOU GOING?” he asked, curious. “YOU LOOKED LIKE YOU WERE TRYING TO SNEAK OUT.”

“nowhere,” he responded automatically, breaking into a bit of a nervous sweat. 

Papyrus gave him a look—it wasn’t upset or angry, only...disappointed. And slightly pleading. Sans fidgeted and looked down.

“...was goin’ back home,” he mumbled, shoving his hands into his pockets, avoiding his brother’s gaze. “wanted to check on dad.”

“CAN I COME WITH YOU?”

He wanted to say no. He wanted to tell him to stay, that everything would be fine, that it would only be a quick visit before he came back.

But the feeling that had been slowly growing over the past hour kept him silent, and he only stared at the ground, fidgeting with the fabric lining his pockets.

“I’M NOT GOING TO LET YOU GO WITHOUT ME.”

“yeah,” he muttered quietly. “yeah, you can.”

Papyrus looked at him again—it wasn’t a look of disappointment, but instead of worry. Sans shrunk into his sweater, feeling an overwhelming urge to pull up the hood.

“OKAY, THEN,” he said reluctantly. “WE SHOULD GO.”

Sans nodded, quietly walking with his brother back to Snowdin, crunching through the snow as they made their way back home.

He hesitated for a bit, an awful pit residing in his stomach, before opening the door.

Everything felt hollow and quiet. Empty. It was as if he were entering somewhere abandoned, unlived in. 

Except it _wasn’t_ abandoned—he had just been here a few days ago. He didn’t know why he was being like this—of course his father would be working upstairs.

But the silence was unsettling. Unnatural. He stuck to his brother’s side as they went up the stairs, each creak of the steps a piercing noise in the quiet.

His steps were shaky, hesitant, and so were his brother’s. But they made it upstairs.

He immediately walked to his dad’s room, the pit in his stomach growing emptier with each step. He gently opened the door, not bothering to knock.

His eyelights landed on a dusty set of rumpled clothes, immediately flickering into darkness.

He couldn’t move, he could only stare in shock—at the dust scattered across the bed and floor, his father’s usually dark grey clothing nearly white with what was left of his body.

“WHAT’S GOING ON—”

Papyrus went quiet beside him, his jaw dropping open in stunned silence.

Sans numbly walked across the room, sitting on the bed, gently running his bony fingers through the shimmering pile of dust that lay on his father’s bed. The dust passed between his phalanges and got on his clothes, the rattling of his bones heard clearly—and multiplied by the sound of his brother doing the same.

He could feel tears well up in his eyes as he slowly picked up the turtleneck, holding them close to his chest. He curled up, his breaths quickening as he hugged his father’s sweater tighter. 

He couldn’t take this.

His body quivered with each sob, and he buried his face in his father’s sweater, curling up. He could feel a pathetic mix between a whimper and a sob escape his throat—his body shook, his bones rattling as he sobbed.

The clothes reeked of cigarette smoke, clearly due to the overflowing ashtray on the desk beside the bed. But it was a comforting smell, one that usually managed to soothe him, that reminded him of Gaster.

Of the skeleton who tried _so hard_ for them both, only to end up making an awful mistake and killing himself for it.

Papyrus broke out of his shock, shakily walking over and putting a hand on his shoulder. He cried a bit harder at the gesture, leaning against his brother as he stroked his back, quiet.

But he could hear quiet, miserable tears escaping from Papyrus as well. He was trembling so hard that Sans could see it.

He didn’t know how long they both stayed there, Sans hugging the clothes to his chest, Papyrus hugging Sans, both crying—but he knew that it must’ve been hours.

He eventually moved to get up. Papyrus didn’t move, his arms dropping shakily.

He noticed the fact that the dust had gotten everywhere, and he froze, staring at the fine specks of dust that seemed to be covering him—it was on his hands, his clothes— _everywhere._

His eye flickered a dim mixture of white and grey, his breathing erratic.

He felt as if his world were crumbling as he started crying again, the sobs rattling his entire body.

“S-SANS…” Papyrus said softly, “COME HERE.”

He glanced back at his brother. He was shaking, his eyes glowing a soft, grey-orange, opening his arms despite the fact that tears continued to fall down his hollowed cheekbones.

He rushed back into his embrace, desperate for any reassurance he could get.

He curled up, burying his face into his shirt, clinging to him, feeling the way he did when he was only a small child back in the cell, waiting for the doctor to come back after he had left them alone for far too long.

Only this time, he wouldn’t come back. He never would.

* * *

Papyrus held his brother in his arms, hugging him close to his chest. He comforted him to the best of his ability, holding him and whispering reassurances—after about an hour or so, he fell silent, still clinging to him. He wasn’t sure if he was awake and in shock, or if he had cried himself to sleep.

He certainly hoped it was the latter. Papyrus didn’t quite know how to comfort someone when he felt as if his world had been crushed to pieces.

He stared at the dust. It nearly didn’t feel real, as if it were some sort of illusion.

He sifted through it with shaky fingers. It was fine, and smooth—like flour, almost, the only differences being the light, shimmery grey colour, and the way it made him want to cry harder when he touched it.

It was definitely real.

And as much as he hated to believe it, he knew that it was his father’s. There was no other answer, no matter how desperate he might have been for one.

Papyrus picked up the sweater that Sans had let go of, gently shaking the dust onto the bed. It smelled of smoke—he usually hated the smell. It was bitter, and sour, and suffocating; but now, in this situation, it was comforting, a gentle reminder of what he had just lost.

The material was soft and stained light grey. He gripped it tightly, letting out a soft whimper, tears falling.

_WHY DID I LEAVE HIM ALONE?_

He hiccuped a sob, holding onto it tighter. He _knew_ that Gaster would react badly—he shouldn’t have listened, he should’ve stayed when he needed him.

In truth, Papyrus had no clue that he would’ve pulled something like this. The fact that he didn’t know stung worse than the strangling grip of blue magic on his SOUL that had grown accustomed to.

 _I REALLY AM STUPID,_ he thought to himself miserably, burying his face into the sweater, before immediately pulling it away. He didn’t want to get it wet with his tears.

He gently put his brother down, getting up—he was asleep, evidently, his eyes closed and his cheeks stained with tears.

Papyrus swept the dust into a pile, brushing it off of his and his brother’s hands and clothes. It was a lot of work, cleaning up the thin, barely visible substance, but he managed it, sweeping it into a container that he had taken from the kitchen.

He closed it, setting it down.

And he burst into tears again, this time uncontrollably as he sat back onto the bed, pulling his knees close to his chest. He attempted to muffle his sobs, choking on his tears, to no avail.

“nnh—papyrus?”

He hugged Sans tightly, still crying.

“h-hey, c’mon, bro,” he murmured, shaking. “you gotta breathe...”

“I MISS HIM,” he sobbed, making Sans freeze and tremble harder. “I MISS HIM SO MUCH— _WHY?_ WHY DID HE HAVE TO DO THAT?”

“i—i dunno,” he mumbled quietly, looking down as he began to tear up again. “he probably thought he couldn’t get better after this...”

Papyrus sobbed miserably, burying his face into his shoulder, and Sans wrapped his arms around him tightly, stroking his back, still shaking. He thought he could hear Sans crying a bit as well, but he couldn’t quite tell.

He calmed eventually, his sobs dying down to only soft tears, his breaths shallow and erratic as he hiccuped and continued to cling to his brother. Sans pressed closer, hugging tighter.

“WHAT ARE WE GOING TO DO NOW?” he asked weakly, his usually loud voice quiet and hesitant. “WE CAN’T JUST PRETEND THAT IT’S FINE…”

 _IT’S NEVER GOING TO BE,_ he thought to himself, not bothering to say it out loud. Sans sighed quietly, shakily, closing his eyes.

“i dunno if there’s anything we _can_ do,” he mumbled, barely audible. Papyrus frowned slightly, but he said nothing.

It wasn’t as if he had a better answer.

**Author's Note:**

> This isn’t the best, but oh well ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


End file.
